


Stress Is Bad For You

by Newtavore



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Cuddling & Snuggling, M/M, Massage, Pampering, Stress Relief, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-12
Updated: 2014-06-12
Packaged: 2018-01-26 13:59:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1690823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Newtavore/pseuds/Newtavore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You poor little descendant has been through so, so much... Now its your turn to take care of him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stress Is Bad For You

**Author's Note:**

> happy birthday karkat here have some happy non depressing things with no crying involved

You poor little descendant has been through so, so much. 

 

 

 

Even before the game, before this madness, when he was just a grub living with his lusus and doing stupid things like all grubs his age, he still had to deal with so much that others hadn’t, just because of his blood color. You can see sweeps and sweeps of instinct, of conditioning, painted over his frame like lines on a face, marking his struggles for all who care to look. 

 

He’s so tense, all the time, so strained and jumpy and constantly on guard, alert, reacting unconsciously to every noise and sound and it hurts to look at him. Seeing him makes your own body go rigid in sympathy and even after only being in his presence a few minutes, your shoulders ache and you feel the beginnings of a stress headache poking at your temples. You have no idea how he deals with it. You have no idea how he endures all the suffering he puts himself through. 

 

Your torment, at least, was not caused by your own body. While you were hunted, chased, constantly hounded by imperial forces, you lived with those you could, and did, trust your life to, those you knew would protect you until their last breath, if it came down to it. You slept soundly knowing that they watched over you, and dreamed dreams of happiness and equality. 

 

You know he has no such luck, and no such dreams. 

 

It pains you to see him so wary and haunted, even here, even with you, even as the victor at the end of the game, free of all oppression and strife. You love both iterations of yourself with all your heart, but Karkat, he’s so cagey, almost timid, and you feel a special dose of pity for him and the circumstances he was forced to live through. 

 

That’s why you’re here, sequestered away in the tiny room designated as  your respite block, with him sprawled on your platform, tense and unhappy and filled with nervous energy. You know he trusts you, loves you, but sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference between his reactions to his surroundings and his reactions to _you_. 

 

“Shh,” you croon, and he relaxes, but only a fraction, only the tiniest bit, “You’re safe here, you know that, dear. I just want to make you feel good, can I do that?”

 

He nods, the smallest motion of his head, and you use that permission to swing yourself over his hips, straddling them. Your knees dig into the soft cushioning on either side of his waist but it keeps you from leaning any of your weight on his back, so you deal with the small measure of discomfort. 

 

“Shh,” you say again, because at your motion he’d jerked away, hands digging into the warming tarps lining the platform, “Shh, it’s only me, you know I won’t hurt you.”

 

He eases back again, but you can still see the tense, guarded lines tracing pained patterns into the muscles of his back, dug in from years of avoiding relaxation. When you rest your hands on the dip of his spine, you can feel the way his skin jumps, but he doesn’t flinch away. 

 

“Just let me take care of you, precious,” you repeat, and he allows you to rub your hands over the valleys and mountains of his scars, tokens of the years he’d lived fighting for his life, his right to live. 

 

“I don’t need anyone to take care of me,” he murmurs, voice slightly hoarse from disuse, because he hardly ever speaks. His looks alone say thousands of words, and nearly everything he needs to get across can be said better with a glance than a conversation. Despite the verbosity and volume of his typing, he is, to be sure, a very quiet individual. 

 

“I know you don’t, but just the same, you don’t need to be alone either.”

 

He doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t object when you dig the heels of your palms into the knots made of his flesh, though you know, from experience, how much it hurts. 

 

Unraveling him from the waist up is a process that takes more time than you’re willing to admit, but it’s worth your own sore back and aching hands to see him unwind, bit by bit, until he’s a mere puddle underneath you, lax and loose and purring quietly. 

 

Every gentle touch prompts a soft sound of contentment, and he leans into your hands, sighing out your name almost too quiet to hear. With the lightest tap, he rolls over, baring his chest to you, and all its own collection of scars. You kiss each one, rubbing your hands over him until he’s too relaxed to move, pliant and easy and ever so trusting of you. 

 

You don’t think he’s ever been touched like this, or ever allowed anyone to see him in such a state. It would have been too dangerous, would have left him too vulnerable to attack, but there’s no one here to fear, now, especially not with you here. 

 

His eyes flutter when you kiss him, and he reciprocates, slow and lazy, really letting you do all the work, and that’s everything you could have wanted. Your fingers smooth out the wrinkles between his brows and brush over his temples, rubbing small circles there until he makes a soft, startled sound, body relaxing even more. 

 

“Pain’s gone…?” he murmurs, dazed.

 

“That was the intention,” you respond, and he nods and gives you the most breathtaking, tiny little smile. It’s heartbreaking, his reaction to the cessation of pain, the way he’s so shocked by his ever present headache being soothed away by lack of stress. He’s so unbelievably pitiful, and all yours to do with as you please. 

 

You work him over, massaging away every last tense muscle you can find, tracing patterns over his skin and easing him into a state of complete relaxation. He’s boneless when you’re through, dead weight when you pick him up and carry him to the little ablution block your quarters came with. 

 

The water heats up quickly, and the small bath fills up quicker, and, when you slide him in, he groans out loud, eyes slipping shut at the sensation. You lean him up against the side, a small towel protecting his head and neck from the sharp edge of the tub, and get to work cleaning him up, using some of the lavender soap Kankri keeps for easing stress and aiding sleep. 

 

You gently cleanse every inch of skin, keeping your touch light, and he soaks up the attention, whimpering whenever you have to withdraw, for any reason. After you wash his body, you clean his hair, running shampoo and conditioner through the snarled strands and rinsing them off with caution, carefully making sure not to get soap in his eyes. 

 

You know he’s not near as kind to himself when he bathes, using nearly cold water and scrubbing his body like it’s done him some sort of disservice. You’ve never chided him for such rough treatment of himself, but now, as he purrs and croons at you in a sleepy, content little voice, you wonder if maybe you should have. 

 

It’s short work to dry him off and redress him, and even shorter work to wrap him in warming tarps and tuck him into the pile of pillows and soft things you’d laid out special for tonight. He chirrs in confusion, barely able to keep his eyes open, and you curl yourself around him, cradling him to your chest and carding your hands through his soft, tangle free hair. 

 

“No sex?” he slurs, gripping your shirt with both hands and tucking his head up under your chin. 

 

“Not tonight,” you croon, nuzzling his horns, your own purr building up in your throat, “I just wanted to take care of you.”

 

“Pale,” he mutters accusingly, eyes already shut, and he’s always so defensive of quadrant boundaries, it’s adorable. 

 

“I just love you,” you say, and he mumbles something similar before he’s out like a light, snoring softly. You grin and press a kiss to his hair before you allow yourself to follow, holding him close. 


End file.
